To treat my case of eye snot, Doctor Doctor prescribed eye drops, which have to be put in my eyes at regular intervals several times per day. Eye drops? No big deal, right?

Maybe it’s no big deal for most peeps, but I am a big baby when it comes to putting eye drops into my eyes. In fact, I get freaky when anyone puts anything near my eyes, which is why I cannot even comfortably think about wearing contact lenses, much less actually wear them.

”Yo, Jimbo. Here are two foreign objects. Just plaster one of them on each of your eyeballs and rock on.”

No farookin’ way!

I also get the heebie jeebies every time I see women applying eye liner by sticking a pencil point right next to her eyeballs. A farookin’ pencil in the eye!!! Yeef!

Anyway, back to eye drops.

Being the big baby that I am, I typically ask Mrs. Parkway to put the drops in my eyes (“You have to OPEN your damned eye, Jim!”), but given the frequency of application, I am largely left to my own devices this time around.

At first, I tried putting the drops in while standing in front of the bathroom mirror and pulling the skin around the bottom of my eyes down (the ophthalmologist does it this way). No dice. I ended up with eye drops everywhere but in my eyes, including on my shirt. It immediately became very clear that tipping one’s head back was a requisite for any chance I might have in getting that stuff into my eyes. I tried the stand-up, head-tilted-back technique, which resulted in some improvement, meaning that it might take four drops to get one drop in my eye.

Turns out that the only way I can get the damned drops into my eyes with something resembling accuracy is to sit in my office chair (at work or at home) and tilt the seat all the way back (almost as if I were in a modern dentist’s chair). Then, bracing my hand against my cheekbone, I put the cursed tip of the little bottle as close to my open eye as I can stand it, reminding myself not to blink. I’m certain that if I touch my eye with the damned thing I’ll pass right the hell out, which is another good reason to be in a chair.

That technique, which is doubtless comical to watch, has me batting above 500, but I still manage to blink when I shouldn’t, leading to drops landing on my eyelid and down my face.

I still have three more days of this to go. Fortunately, Doctor Doctor prescribed enough of the stuff to permit me to dispense mass quantities of the medicine seemingly everywhere except to my eye balls.

Yep. Definitely a big baby when it comes to eye drops.

Truth is, it’s not just eyes and eye drops about which I am a big baby, but we won’t be discussing the time many, many years ago when a doctor prescribed suppositories.

A PRS Operative found himself in the right place at the right time when Senator Hillary Clinton made a rare appearance at her and Bill’s home in Chappaqua, New York. Here is a transcript of the sidewalk interview.

PRS: Senator Clinton, PRS here. Do you have a moment for a few questions?

HC: PRS? What is that?

PRS: It’s a blog, Ma’am.

HC: Are you some kind of wiseass asking me if I have a moment? You think just because I’m no longer in the race I have lots of time on my hands? I hate wiseass guys like you.

PRS: No, I asked if you had a moment, because I was trying to be polite. I didn’t want to just blurt out questions like some rude reporters do.

HC: Oh, sorry. I misunderstood. I’m a bit testy these days, as you can imagine.

PRS: Is that because of how the primary election turned out.

HC: Damned straight, but it’s also these piles.

PRS: Piles? Piles of what?

HC: Piles, dammit! You know, hemorrhoids. I feel like I’ve got a grape vine growing from my ass. It’s from all that time sitting on planes and being constipated from eating all that shitty food during the campaign. Hell, damned near every day I spent six or seven hours on a plane and ate two or three pizzas.

PRS: That sounds pretty bad.

HC: It’s worse than you think. You know, when you finally get off the plane and move around a little, you feel like you have to take a wicked crap. So you say to your handlers, “Give me a minute so I can go to the ladies room.” They say, “Sorry Senator, we’re already late for the next appearance.” So you squeeze your butt cheeks together and do the speech. This shit goes on all day, so at the end of the day when you finally get a chance to sit down on the toilet for some serious shittage, nothing happens. So, you squeeze and push until your eyeballs are about to pop out and still nothing happens. This goes on for days until all the squeezing, pushing and eye popping results in piles the size of golf balls.

PRS: So, your detractors who, during your campaign, said that you were full of shit were technically correct.

HC: Oh, you are a wiseass, after all.

PRS: Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. How about after our chat I go pick you up a tube of Preparation H?

HC: Actually, it was pretty funny, and as for the Preparation H, no need to bother. I’ve got the industrial size tube in the house.

PRS: I can imagine that losing the primary election is a pretty depressing thing. What have you been doing to keep your spirits up?

HC: I smoke lots of weed and spit a lot at a big picture of Obama I have hanging in the house.

PRS: Spitting on a picture? That can be pretty messy, no?

HC: No problem. I make Bill clean it up.

PRS: Speaking of Bill … I mean, President Clinton, is there any chance I could have a word or two with him?

HC: Sorry. He can’t speak at the moment.

PRS: I take it then that he’s very busy?

HC: No, he’s handcuffed to the kitchen chair and the gag ball makes talking impossible. Son of a bitch had it coming.

PRS: So, you didn’t think that he was an asset to your campaign?

HC: Asset? Please. Any more questions? My ass in on fire.

PRS: Just one more question. With hindsight, if you could change one thing about your campaign, what would it be?

HC: My tits.

PRS: Your … excuse me … tits?

HC: Yeah, I should have gotten a boob job before all the campaign shit started. I’d have gotten a big set of double D’s. Men really love a big set of knockers. That would have put me over the top for shit sure.

PRS: Thank you for your time, Senator.

HC: No problem. Ouch!! Goddamned piles.

For reasons I cannot completely explain, this video, which I swiped from Cousin Jack (and which I may be the last person on earth to have seen), made me feel good.

Perhaps we should all take a deep breath and do a happy dance.

Here’s the backstory.

It’s what I’ve now got. I’ve had it before.

This, on top of a lingering, exhausting cold. Thrilling.

No, I’m not talking about those silly internet quizzes that ask “What Kind of Dog are You?” in which the reader is faced with several silly questions, the answers to which are matched up by someone (Christ knows who) to the characteristics of various dog breeds. These quizzes are right up there in silliness with “What kind of pie are you?” and “What kind of cheese are you?”

I’m also not talking about the curious (albeit anecdotal) phenomenon of the similarity of the faces of dog owners and their dogs.

I’m talking about some frank and sometimes difficult introspection, taking into account your temperament (as you know it to be) and your appearance in a full-length mirror.

Like most folks, the dog I would like to be and the dog I would be are not the same dog. I would like to answer the question by saying that I would be a tough, formidable Rottweiler, or an almost-regal German Shepherd. Perhaps a handsome Irish Setter (great farookin’ hair), or a sleek, Whippet.

Truth is that when I look in the mirror I must confess that if I were a dog, I would be a Corgi, bulky with short legs — built a bit like a fire plug. It used to bother me that I would be a Corgi, but having seen this little guy in action, I think I’m now OK with my Corginess.

So, fess up! What kind of dog would you be?

P.S. I took the silly quizzes: Dog=Beagle, Pie=chocolate, Cheese=Fiscalini cheddar.

Resting.

Have a happy and safe holiday.

Major Dwayne Kelley, an Army Major, and New Jersey State Trooper from South Orange, New Jersey , was laid to rest in a ceremony attended by Army personnel and hundreds of State Troopers from New Jersey and elsewhere.

Kelley served in the Army before beginning a police career. He was on his third tour of duty overseas with the U.S. Army Reserve, serving as an interrogator in Baghdad, when he was killed by an explosion in Sadr City, Iraq on June 24.
…
Kelly is survived by his wife, Manita Kelley and his daughter, Mushirah Kelley, both of South Orange; his mother, Vera Kelley of Willingboro; his sister Sabrina and brother-in-law David Dalton of Montclair; and by his brother, Michael Kelley and sister-in-law Ruth Kelley of Kissimmee, Fla.

May he rest in peace, and may his family find peace.

Permit me a bit of introspection.

I try to be mindful of the Law of Occum’s Razor when I do the introspective thing, and Occum’s Razor would lead to the following conclusions:

1. My cruller is fogged by some sort of a micro organism that has rendered me a stumbling, unable-to-concentrate snot factory.

2. Whatever energy I may have had at the beginning of the day is now completely sapped, as evidenced by my seemingly Bataan Death March-like stumble between my office and the Big, Fat, Black Capitalistic Car at the end of the work day.

3. The Booger Fairies that have rendered me a pathetic snot-filled dewemplin have prevented me from having any ground pound time, which is the time when I have almost always formulated readworthy posts.

Then again (and much more ominous) is the possibility that I have completely and forever lost whatever I once had resembling a fastball. All I know is that, at the moment, blogging just doesn’t seem like much fun.

All is not lost, for I am healthy enough to recognize that Harry Reid is a contemptible swine (I always knew that), but I have recently been reminded that he is also as dumb as a bag of potting soil.

I wonder at what point the sane people of the world will collectively say, “Enough is enough.”